


blue blood

by yorkes



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorkes/pseuds/yorkes
Summary: The one where a stranger trespasses into Feyre's tower at just the right time.(a very loose tangled/rapunzel au)
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 15
Kudos: 91





	1. "no one could set me free"

**Author's Note:**

> So these past couple of months I have been distracting myself in quarantine by falling in love with some of my favorite young adult books again! After watching Tangled a few weeks ago and exhausting the feyre/rhys tag on ao3 I decided I'd try to write a little tangled inspired one-shot for them. I abandoned it because I was totally getting ahead of myself and fleshing out a whole universe in my head. With finals, I didn't have time to do it justice, but now that the semester is wrapping up I do!
> 
> That's basically a long way for me to say this will be a mini-fic inspired by the different rapunzel retellings! Very loosely so! This chapter sets up the rest of the story but after that, it'll be focused on Feyre and Rhys. 
> 
> (Trigger Warning for Suicidal Thoughts)

Feyre always knew her mother was a witch.

There was never a moment it all clicked together for her. It’d always been a possibility in the back of her head, a hum of understanding. If she had anyone to speak to, she’d be able to list off her reasoning. Like that one time, she caught her mother using magic in the kitchen when she thought her daughter was sleeping. Anecdotes were hardly necessary though. Amarantha didn’t look a day over thirty and she had an almost nineteen-year-old daughter. Magic was the only plausible explanation. 

It was an unspoken understanding between the two of them, Feyre figured. That or her mother really thought she was that dumb.

“Feyre,” her mother sang, stirring her from her thoughts. Feyre was by her easel as she usually was once her chores were done. On this occasion, she’d dragged the mirror from her bedroom downstairs. Propped up against the wall, she was able to study her own features. After all these years she was familiar with them - the long golden brown hair loose down her back, the gray eyes that blinked back at her, and the slope of her nose. From the books on her shelf, she could gather that she was pretty; her interest in her features had nothing to do with vanity.

“Feyre!” Her mother’s voice was losing patience. Feyre set her brush down, eyes lingering on her reflection before she stole her gaze away from the mirror. 

“Coming, mother,” she called back, making her way to the window. It was the only one in the whole tower - the only way for Feyre to look out into the world. The small valley they resided in was always quiet but even the animals seemed quiet that day.

Feyre hooked her overgrown hair up into the rig and over the window sill. Her mother came up to the tower less and less but the mechanics were always the same. Sometimes Feyre felt like her hair was a muscle, having trained all of these years for one purpose. Though, in actuality, her scalp was probably doing the most work. 

When her hair tumbled all the forty feet down to the bottom of the tower, it just grazed the weeded grass. None of her books covered the topic, but Feyre was sure it would be enough of a fall to kill someone. This comforted her.

Feyre peered down at her mother, just a speck of red hair and black cloth amongst the greenery. She titled her face up to look at Feyre, the cloak falling from her head. Even from forty feet away, Feyre could see how her mother’s features differed. She’d had years to decide that her mother was beautiful, but it was the overall effect that made you think so. Amarantha’s features were full of harsh lines and contrasts, from the fiery red of her hair against her cool skin to the hook of her nose. It was hard to look at her for too long sometimes.

Amarantha looked nothing like her daughter, a fact she liked taunt Feyre with. When Feyre had been young and stupid, she’d asked her mother why they looked so different. In a book she read, there had been these three sisters with matching blonde locks and matching blue eyes. They’d inherited their looks from their parents,

 _“When I look at you, all I see is your father,”_ her mother had said, voice dripping with venom. _“I pray to the cauldron every night that you don’t turn out like him.”_

Feyre had only been eight-years-old but those words stuck with her. At the time, Amarantha hadn’t divulged the whole truth, but Feyre knew that her father was the entire reason she was stuck in a tower. Why her mother couldn’t lead a normal life either.

_“You were not born from love, Feyre.”_

Feyre flinched at the memory as she pulled her mother up to the tower. There was no stairwell, no alternate way of getting in - or out. The entire tower was built to protect Feyre. It was secluded - cauldron knows where, but wherever they were no one had ever stumbled upon them. When Feyre was little, she used to stare out of the window, imagining her prince charming would come and help her defeat her father. When she was little, they’d used a rope to hoist her mother and supplies up. 

Things changed as Feyre got older and her mother grew colder. Amarantha had to get rid of the rope when she found Feyre attempting to use it as another means of escape. 

Her hair had been long enough at that point to function the same as rope. Amarantha had never let her cut it and once they got rid of the rope, the scissors and knives disappeared too. 

“Mother,” Feyre greeted Amarantha. The redheaded woman had a tight smile on as she swung through the window and swept past her daughter. A small squeeze on her arm was her form of a greeting. One that was firmer than it needed to be. “How was your trip?” Feyre asked, gathering her hair back.

Amarantha shrugged, letting her eyes peruse the tower. She dropped her basket on the ground next to her, proceeding into the space. If Feyre had known her mother would be home, she would’ve tidied up. She never needed an extra reason to be yelled at.

So Feyre tensed, waiting for a reaction to the strewn books and open paint jars. Instead, Amarantha made her way over to her easel, eyes narrowing as she took in the unfinished self-portrait. Feyre followed in her footsteps, awaiting a critique. 

“What’s this?” Amarantha finally bit out. 

“A self-portrait,” Feyre said, “I-I saw one in that book of artists you got for me and I thought I would try it.” Amarantha frowned, shaking her head.

“No. You need to get rid of this.”

“Why?” Feyre asked, her voice almost devoid of all emotion. She used to get angry with her mother. Now, she knew there no point. 

Her mother loved her - Feyre knew she must. Not that Amarantha ever said it. Not that you could tell in the way she leveled her eyes at daughter, making her feel small. But, in all the stories Feyre read, people sacrificed for those they loved most. Her mother had given up so much to protect Feyre.

“What if your father saw this?” Amarantha posed. 

“He wouldn’t,” Feyre defended, her voice barely rising.

Amarantha tisked, turning her glare away from her daughter. She moved towards the easel, picking up the still saturated brush. Feyre’s chest tightened the moment Amarantha pressed the brush onto the canvas. With a few swift flicks of her pale wrist, the colors in the paintings blurred together until only abstract shapes of browns, creams, and golds remained. 

“You should really know better, Feyre,” was all her mother said when she stepped back, dropping the brush with little regard. There was a tension in her voice that worried Feyre. “I didn’t come up here to fight you with,” she added, with a sigh, “you know how much I hate being the bad guy.”

Feyre said nothing, looking back towards the basket she’d brought with her. She saw a loaf of bread peeking out.

“Thank you for bringing me supplies back,” she noted, giving her mother a small smile. It was hard for her to express gratitude for her mother so Feyre focused on tangible things. She was grateful for shelter, for food, and for her generosity. Considering groceries and supplies were the only reason Amarantha why made her way up to see Feyre anymore, it worked.

Feyre’s only memories were of living in their tower. When she was little, Amarantha was there too. It was around Feyre’s sixteenth birthday that Amarantha started moving her things to the cottage just a stone’s throw from the base of the tower. When it was around then that Feyre started to resent her mother. It ate Feyre alive with guilt but she could never shake it.

“That’s actually not why I’m here,” Amarantha said. The tightness in Feyre’s chest fell into the pit of her stomach. “I’m having guests over at the cottage tonight. I need you to stay quiet, blow out the candles when it gets dark. They can’t know you’re here.”

Feyre’s mouth parted in surprise. It took a moment for the gravity of what was just said to sink in.

“In fact,” Amarantha weighed the words aloud, “just go to bed early tonight.” 

“ _People_. People are coming here?” A mix of fear of exhilaration pulsed throughout Feyre’s body. It even made its way into her words. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited.

“They won’t be stepping foot in this tower,” Amarantha said very carefully, starting to move past Feyre and towards the window. 

“Why? Why are they coming?” A million thoughts ran through Feyre’s head.

“That’s none of your business,” Amarantha snapped. Feyre’s excitement began to deflate. 

“Is it safe? For them to know where we are?” Feyre asked instead. Amarantha’s expression twisted into something ugly.

“Don’t you dare question me,” she hissed, her voice low.

“I’m sorry, I-.” The words couldn’t tumble out of Feyre’s mouth faster, but she was cut off. 

“Don’t. Just let me back down.”

In heavy silence, Feyre helped her mother back down from the tower. She was left with a warning that felt more like an omen.

_Go to be bed early tonight, Feyre. Or else._

* * *

Feyre stayed awake. For the first time, she felt alive, even in the smallest of ways. For years, disobeying her mother had only brought impending dread. So much so that she’d given up on it altogether. This time, as she sat on the floor by the window, she felt something else fester inside of her. The candles were all blown out but if she looked at the reflection, she was sure there would have been a sparkle in her eyes.

As she watched as the sunset, she was perfectly still. The sun dipped down and the stars came out, like any normal night, but Feyre swore the world just didn’t know that things would be vastly different. The only source of light in the valley came from the waning moon and the gaslights in Amarantha’s cottage. No one would be able to see Feyre in the tower ; no one would see two floating eyes just peering over the edge. 

When three figures emerged from the thicket that separated their valley from what she assumed was the rest of the world, it was overwhelming. Feyre felt the need to cry, to shout, to just do something - but Amarantha was among them, holding a lantern that bathed the group in soft light. When they got closer, Amarantha kept her eyes focused on the cottage but the two men accompanying her stole glances upwards.

They were far away but Feyre tried her hardest to get a good look at them. She’d only ever seen men drawn in her art books. The taller one had fair hair that was tied back. The other was a bit shorter with hair that didn’t reflect the moon. The dark-haired one seemed older to Feyre, though it was too far to really distinguish features. 

All three of them disappeared into the cottage, as quickly as they’d come. Feyre waited by the window for them to reappear - she just wanted another peek, to see if their appearance could add anything to her measly existence. Hour by hour passed by, the silhouettes in the cottage giving nothing away, before Feyre’s eyes grew heavy; her mind was tired too from so much hypothesizing. She gave up on waiting after four hours of watching the stars blink back at her mockingly.

The next morning when she woke she went to the window and wondered if life would be different now that her routine had been disrupted by visitors. When she was younger she often dreamt of what would happen if strangers burst into the little world her mother had cultivated. In the midst of possible fairytale endings, there were nightmares - of her father coming to kill her. What took up her daydreaming never came to fruition. Feyre gave up on any chance of any excitement, good or bad, before she became a teenager.

Standing at the window, at nineteen, the world looked exactly the same. If anything, just a bit more overcast. 

That was until she realized the visitors never left. 

When the blond stepped out of her mother’s cottage, Feyre was frozen in place. She should’ve moved, she knew she was practically framed for viewing in that window, but seeing him sent her into a stupor. In the night, he was like a whisper of something. Nothing she could really comprehend. In the light of day, it hit her how extraordinary someone showing up was.

She might’ve moved a moment later, out of sight, but the man looked up a second too soon. 

It was exhilarating, locking eyes with someone new, but the excitement that blossomed quickly soured as she realized what it meant. Her eyes were as wide as his but where his held wonder, hers held fear.

She shook her head frantically, hoping he could possibly understand what she meant. Her mother’s voice filled the air before he could give any sign in return. Feyre didn’t know what Amarantha was saying but the very cadence of her voice made was an alarm. Feyre darted from the window, her body cold and shaking.

“We don’t have time to stop for fresh air,” a gruff male voice called out.

“I’ll be right back, Hybern,” the other man - the blond, she guessed - said back. He sounded as breathless as Feyre felt, but there was something else in his voice that she couldn’t place.

 _Confusion_ , she guessed. He didn’t know what to make of what he’d just seen. Feyre prayed to the cauldron that he left it that way. She went to sit on the couch, palms shaking as she waited for the fallout. 

But it never came. It was dark out when her mother finally called for her.

“Feyre!” she heard her say. There was no apparent angry in her mother’s voice. This should’ve comforted Feyre but she knew her mother was good at acting. Amarantha often liked to lure Feyre into admitting things and then flipping on her. 

“Coming,” Feyre returned, bolstering the strength in her voice. It almost surprised her to see the man gone, even though it had been hours. “How were your visitors?” she asked once her mother set down onto the tower’s wooden floors.

“They’re fine,” she said dismissively, “just some business being taken care of. Some old debts.” 

“Old?” Feyre asked aloud, immediately regretting it. There was no reason for her to care, not to Amarantha at least. She shouldn’t have looked out the window; she shouldn’t have known the blond man barely looked any older than herself.

“Indeed,” Amarantha said plainly, ignoring the odd question and walking to the couch. With a sigh, she sat down. Feyre had never seen her mother look so… drained. Her features hadn’t changed, the skin still too smooth and her lips too full, but Amarantha looked tired. As if the past day had drained her. “I’m going to need you to keep staying away from the window - turning the lights off at night. My… business with my guests isn’t done. They’ll be back in the morning.”

“Do they know about me?” Feyre asked, having the foresight to sound scared. Her mother shook her head, a wry smile creeping onto her lips. 

“Of course not, dear,” she practically chided. “You’re my best-kept secret.”

Perhaps Amarantha had meant for it to be a sweet, maternal statement, but it sent chills down Feyre’s spine. It sounded like a threat.

* * *

True to her mother’s words, the visitors came back the next day. Then the day after that. And the day after that.

The first-day, Feyre kept away from the window. That panic she’d experienced kept her in check. As the days dragged Feyre got bolder and bolder. The blond man hadn’t snitched on her. 

She was careful the second time around, placing herself in the shadows of the tower where she couldn’t be seen from below. When the blond - Tamlin, she heard his friend call him - looked up, she noticed he lingered. It was like he was willing Feyre to reappear; like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined her before.

She wanted to reappear. It was like every single one of the fairytales on her shelf. Tamlin was handsome enough to be her knight and she knew she was pretty enough to be the fair maiden. But she couldn’t. There was so much fear holding her back; fear of her father and fear of her mother. At the end of the day, what bolstered her most was her knowledge that fairytales weren’t real. And, anyways, Tamlin was there to work with her mother. She was afraid to cross her, herself. 

Feyre knew she was going to die in that tower. 

* * *

Tamlin and Hybern became sudden fixtures in Feyre’s life. They never saw her, but she saw them. As she painted, she kept an ear out for their conversations, trying to piece together the reason for their sudden emergence. They were almost always in her mother’s cottage though. Too far and too closed off for her to hear. She could pick up on their louder conversations though - the more heated ones. 

It was from those arguments, mainly the ones between Hybern and Amarantha, that Feyre realized she the debts confused. Her mother owed the two men, not the other way around. And they came like clockwork to collect, disappearing into the cottage and reappearing at the end of the day.

About a week into their visits, the pattern had a hiccup. Amarantha called feyre to the window but didn’t ask to be brought up. 

“I’ll be gone for the day,” her mother announced, making her way out of the valley with a small basket and her favorite cloak. Her mother often went off on short trips but her absence had never felt so palpable. 

Until it wasn’t quiet anymore. 

“I know you’re up there,” a voice called out, stirring Feyre from her chores. She’d been lazy, getting to them only as morning crept into the afternoon. She recognized the voice immediately; after all, she only knew three other than her own. “I saw you,” Tamlin called up, causing Feyre to nearly drop the dish she’d been holding. 

She knew he looked for her, always looking up, but speaking directly to her almost made her cry. She hadn’t realized how starved for human interaction she was. And that hunger was enough to carry her to the window, where she knew she shouldn’t be.

It was like she someone else: speaking to him, introducing herself, letting down her hair to bring him up to the tower. Tamlin was… kind and Feyre, well, she was lonely. 

It was innocent and innocuous, Tamlin’s quick venture up the tower. They sat a few feet apart, talking for a few hours about almost nothing at all. Feyre learned almost nothing about him but she’d managed to spill so much about her life to him. Not that there was much to spill; she spoke about her paintings, the books she read, and living in the same place day in and day out. She didn’t dare talk about why she kept in that tower and he had the good sense not to ask. 

Tamlin was a good listener. If he was surprised by her life, he hid it well. He had a healthy level of curiosity in her life that underwhelmed Feyre. It was enough to make her question if girls being locked away in towers was a normal occurrence. 

When he left, with a promise of returning, she realized that she’d learned nothing about why he was working with her mother. Nothing about the old debts that he was too young for. She’d been too overwhelming with speaking to someone new to think clearly.

If anything, his visit proved to Feyre once and for all that her life would never a fairytale. She’d found him was attractive but she hadn’t swooned. There had been no attempted kisses or hasty declarations of love. It was ridiculously exciting for someone to be in her tower but it hadn’t instantly changed her life like she thought it might.

No, that domino effect took about a day to take hold. 

* * *

Feyre heard shouting the next day. For the first time, Tamlin’s voice was in the mix. 

Amarantha had returned from her day trip in a sour mood but when it wasn’t aimed at her daughter, Feyre thought she was in the clear. Some foolish part of her thought life could continue on as normal despite her lapse in judgment.

Then the screaming match started. Feyre knew instantly that something was wrong but it wasn’t until she heard her name that her head began to pound. She couldn’t focus on the words being placed around her name; all she heard was shouting. Amarantha liked to raise her voice but there was always a chilling calm to it. She never lost control - never shouted like this. 

Feyre approached the window with a sense of horror. The anger in her mother’s voice was disturbing but not surprising. It was the anger in the men’s voices that alarmed her. For a moment, Feyre wondered if she’d had it all wrong. If it was her mom that had been wrong. If the strangers were going to help her. 

But then Feyre forced herself to listen to what they were shouting at each other.

“You knew the deal, Amarantha,” Hybern accused. “You knew the deal and you went behind our backs for nineteen years. All this time I thought you were laying low, poisoning the very earth you walked on, but no. You were playing house with a dead girl.”

“You know nothing about Feyre,” Amarantha practically hissed. 

“Actually I-” Tamlin’s voice started to say.

“NO!” Amarantha screeched, “no, you do not. Please just stop before you embarrass yourself, Tamlin. If your lowlives of a father and brother knew how to keep themselves from getting killed you would back in your manor instead of sneaking onto my property. This is a conversation for ad-”

Something akin to a growl cut her off. 

“No, you listen to me,” Tamlin threatened, that growl now a murmur underneath his voice. “I may not know much about that girl - other than the fact you keep in locked up in a tower - but I did see her face. You can’t keep this charade up with us. Feyre - if that’s what you’ve decided to call her - she has the exact same eyes as her father.”

Feyre’s blood turned cold at his words.

“Why did you do it, Amarantha? Why do something so stupid?” Hybern asked. “That girl was never supposed to leave her cradle alive. You’re lucky he never knew about this. Are you really that insane - that selfish and twisted - that you couldn’t just kill her?”

None of it made sense to Feyre. She struggled to make a narrative out of their verbal sparring - struggled to fit her father into all of it. 

“And what are you going to do about it?” Amarantha taunted. “It’s not like you can tattle on me, lest you forgot what this has done for you.”

“I can go up there and kill her,” Hybern threatened. “I can end whatever game you’re playing for good. It’d be a kindness really, putting that poor girl out of her misery.”

There was more commotion but Amarantha stayed silent. It was Tamlin who spoke.

“No,” he said, his voice uncertain. 

“No?” Hybern repeated. 

“We don’t have to kill her,” he said, his voice an eery calm, “I can take her.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tamlin, you can’t free her-” Hybern was cut off by a collision of the other two voices. They were all speaking over each other now, trying to decide Feyre’s fate. For a split second, Feyre almost wanted Tamlin, a near-stranger, to win the argument. She allowed herself to think that maybe this was her twisted version of a fairytale until-

“She wouldn’t be free to roam anywhere,” Tamlin promised, over the dissent of the others. “She’d just be somewhere new. _Somewhere not with you_ , Amarantha. The manor’s too big anyway - I could keep her away from most of the staff. No one would know.”

It was shortlived, the idea of Tamlin as her knight in shining armor. 

His offer silenced their discussion for ten of Feyre’s rapid heartbeats. 

“Why bother?” Amarantha finally asked. “Why not just kill her as Hybern wants? The gig is up. You know she’s a liability.”

The whole conversation had been unsuspecting punch after punch but this was the one that landed right in Feyre’s gut. She knew her mother was a good actress but she could tell those words were baldfaced. 

“I imagine it’s the same reason you never killed her,” Tamlin smoothly replied. “Some kind of satisfaction in knowing you were the one in on the secret, twisting in the knife in on her father. Only, unlike you, I get to watch you and her dad squirm. _And_ , you’re right, I’m not the same man my father was when he made that deal with you and Hybern two decades ago. I’m not comfortable killing an innocent. I understand the necessity of keeping her secluded but I can do it. I don’t want everything to fall apart because of _your_ mistake Amarantha.”

There was much between the lines that Feyre was missing but one thing had become crystal clear. Her tower wasn’t meant to keep people out like her mother had promised all these years - it was meant to keep her in. And her prince charming wasn’t willing to save her. All he wanted was to move her into a new prison. 

“I could be okay with that arrangement,” Hybern hesitantly said. In their dynamic, he clearly held the most weight. With his words, a hum of understanding fell between them.

“Feyre, I know you’re there,” Amarantha suddenly said. “You might as well come out so we can see you.” Her gritted teeth were apparent in the very tone of her command.

If Feyre had any sense left in her body her mother’s words might’ve felt like a chill down her spine, but she was as stiff as a board. Somehow, she managed to move her feeble legs towards the window. She had to brace herself to keep from falling over. Underneath her hands, the ledge was hot from the sun.

When she angled her face down, willing herself to look at them, Hybern sucked in a breath.

“She certainly is her father’s daughter,” he managed to say, shaking his head in a cross between amusement and disbelief.

“I want you to know that you did this to yourself, that you remember I told you to stay hidden,” Amarantha said, eyes icy even from forty feet down. “It’s about time you learned that your actions have repercussions.” 

* * *

It only took was a few minutes for the threads Feyre had only tugged at to completely unravel.

She was spiraling. Hybern, her mother, and her soon-to-be captor had disappeared hours earlier, but she was still stuck to the window. The sun was starting to set and legs were starting to ache from sitting on the wooden floor but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Somehow her body felt electrified and like jelly all at once.

Her mother had barely fought for her. Feyre had no words. She’d no clue how to defend herself against them - how to fight for herself. And if she had, they hadn’t let her get a word in. They’d clawed at her semblance of life but given her no real answers. All she was left with were questions. 

There was only one real certainty in her life. Hybern, Tamlin, and her mother left the valley to conclude their current business - what that was exactly Feyre still didn’t know - and they’d be back in three days’ time. When they returned, Tamlin would take Feyre.

The bastard had the audacity to smile at her before he left.

Feyre could only bring herself to make two infinitesimally small movements. The first was a small movement of the chin to the grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room. The second, a slight flick of her eyes down to appraise the drop. For the first time in her life, she considered if she could make her way down. Get out on her own. The very idea was like punctured float; a mirage in her desert. Feyre’s hair worked as a rope for someone else but it wouldn’t work as a means of escape. Her hair simply wasn’t long enough - it would run out if she tried to use it. She’d still have to face a drop that would likely kill her. 

That was if she even wanted to try to escape. If she wanted to go out into a world she’d only ever read about and try to survive. If she wanted to risk the chance of her father, whoever he was, finding her. The half-revelations had only made her warier. She no longer knew who the villains in her story were but had a sinking feeling that there were more of them than in the run-of-the-mill bedtime story.

She had another option out. If she jumped, the drop would kill her. The ultimate escape. 

Feyre sucked in an unsteady breath as the thought crossed her mind. Closing her eyes, she shut out her view from the window. If she did nothing, her mother and Tamlin would return in three days’ time. She’d be someone else’s prisoner. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

She pushed herself up off the ground, keeping her eyes averted from the window. There would be no escaping for now. She tried to convince herself a life with Tamlin would be okay. That, even if it wasn’t, the drop from his windows wouldn’t be quite as daunting. _I can play the long game_ , she told herself. She’d been in one for years without knowing it.

The idea of food nauseating her but her dry throat begging for water. It was on her slow trek to the kitchen that she heard something. In the midst of her thoughts and the incessant grandfather clock, it sounded like an alarm. She barely heard her own sharp intake of breath, moving back towards the window, scared to get too close.

The sound was foreign. It was aggressive - not unlike the ticking on the grandfather clock, but still completely different. 

The day was drawing to a close but there was still enough light for Feyre to determine it was a stranger running through the valley. For a fleeting moment, upon seeing that Tamlin hadn’t returned early, she felt her body relax. From the speck of short dark hair and the unfamiliar blurred form, she knew it was not one of three people she knew. The moment it hit her that a stranger was running straight towards her, all her panic returned.

She stumbled away from the window in horror; as if somehow she could be seen in near darkness from stories down. He - Feyre could tell as the stranger got closer that it was a man - was slowing down, stealing glances over his shoulder. She watched as he tilted his head up, taking in the tower. He diverted his attention to the cottage. 

When he disappeared into Amarantha’s home, Feyre chided herself from her irrational fear. There was no way for someone to come up to the tower without her help. The stranger would leave once they had stolen from Amarantha and then she’d be alone again. Left to contemplate what do with her shell of a life. 

That is, until he re-emerged from the cottage without an item in hand, his eyes set on the tower. She wondered what was running through his mind; if he would try to look for a hidden staircase or some other means of getting up. Nothing prepared her for what she saw next.

One moment, the dark-haired man peered up from the base of the tower. The next, obsidian wings sprung from his back. They looked like the wings of a creature she’d seen in a book. He was already moving - flying - when she darted from the window. She found herself in the kitchen nook with her heart racing, hands fumbling for a butter knife but coming up with a frying pan instead.

Feyre heard him before she saw him; the sound of wings flapping and the shoes hitting solid ground. Then, as she spun around to see him, she heard him swore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know you're interested in the rest of the story! I was nervous to post this because I've never written for this world before (let alone actually written fic for a book fandom before) but I like how it's turning out.


	2. "in a pretty dark place praying for the end"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support on the first chapter! I have a rough idea for how this story will go but once my last final is submitted I'm gonna sit down and map it out so I have more of a plan. That said, it won't be super long so I'm sorry if this is a bit fast-paced! I hope you enjoy!

The stranger’s wings disappeared in a flash. Feyre didn’t understand where they went, how massive wings could simply vanish, but it made her grip her frying pan even tighter.

It was gradually getting dark but there was enough light to make out his face. She meant to make a quick assessment, see what his expression held as she often did with her mother. What she found was just as startling as the wings. He was probably a few years older than Feyre but nothing about his features clung to adolescence. Everything about him was strong without being sharp. Like the sculptures from the art texts on her bookshelf - practically made from marble. And his eyes… she could see them across the room. Feyre had never read about eyes being violet. She attributed it to the lack of light.

In the midst of everything else, how striking he was still managed to make her uneasy. From the descriptions of the dashing suitors in her books, Feyre had assumed that Tamlin was handsome. Her mind had to search through its catalog for a word fitting this new character in her life. It landed on something unexpected. Beautiful. If Tamlin looked the part of the golden prince, this man was something else entirely.

It was like breaking out of a stupor, realizing how long she must’ve been staring at him, but she realized he was doing the exact same. As if he could sense Feyre had finished her perusal, his eyes moved from hers to her right hand. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he finally said, nodding towards her weapon of choice. She did nothing in response, said nothing. They remained locked in place for a loaded few seconds before he raised his hands. “I’m unarmed,” he offered, taking a step back even though there were already at least ten feet between them. “Smart of you though. You shouldn’t trust a stranger.”

His voice was almost predatory, Feyre noted. It was smooth and nonchalant despite the situation - as if this was just another night for him. Like he was luring in prey. Whereas when she spoke, she knew she gave everything away.

“Did my father send you?” she asked, wearily. After the day she’d had it was hard to muster fear. An intruder had been enough to resurrect her from her near comatose state, but just barely. It took all she had to put on a brave face and fall apart in front of this stranger.

“No,” he said simply. Feyre let out half of the breath she was holding. She knew he could be lying but she heard the curiosity in his voice. Somehow, that put her slightly at ease. “I didn’t realize anyone was home-” he paused, looking around the space, “-if that’s what this is.”

Feyre chose not to respond to that.

“How did you find this place?” she asked instead. No one ever wandered into their valley. She was convinced her mother had spelled it that way. 

“I was trying to get away from someone,” he explained, with a smile ghosting his lips, “well, two someones actually, but the brain of one combined.”

“And you just stumbled into my valley?”

“ _Your_ valley?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. Feyre gave a little nod of her chin. “In that case… yes. I stumbled into your valley. I needed somewhere to lay low. That cottage seemed fine but then I realized a tower would be better.”

 _Yes_ , Feyre thought, _because who else could fly up a giant tower_.

“And now you’re here,” she said instead.

The man nodded, letting his eyes wander around the room. There was a heavy silence that, coupled with the fading light, allowed Feyre to contemplate the humor in the situation. Just five minutes before she was looking for a way out. Throwing herself off a ledge seemed downright depressing but a murderous stranger certainly provided a unique solution to her problem. It wouldn’t be her fault.

“Is this-” he started to say.

“Are you gonna try to kill me?” Feyre asked, cutting him off. The man looked surprised. He clearly hadn’t let himself contemplate the situation at all; humor or lack thereof.

“We’ve already established that you’re not going to believe me,” he said, “but, for what it’s worth, no. Not going to hurt you. Not going to kill yo.”

Feyre was almost disappointed by his response. That little deflation in her chest was enough for her to pose her next question; if she was hoping to be murdered rather than facing her future, she had to seize the unlucky situation she found herself in.

Even though she’d weighed it out in her head, she could hardly believe her own voice.

“You want to stay here? Lay low. For how long?” she asked.

“Just for the night,” he answered.

 _Just the night_. Feyre’s clock was ticking. Three days to change her life. Still, it was heavy knowing it could happen in less than twelve hours.

“Where are you going after that?” she asked, stalling.

“Home,” he said. There was a new edge to his voice.

“Is that far away from here?” she asked instead. 

“Yes.”

“How far?” she pressed.

“Far.” 

She lowered the frying pan, a dull pain starting to form in her hand from squeezing too tight. She set it down on the kitchen table with a small thud, moving to feel for the lamp that sat next to the basin, She flicked it on. It emitted a soft glow but it was enough.

“I’m willing to let you stay here tonight, but on a condition,” she started, willing herself to sound confident. “When you leave tomorrow, take me down with you. I get that you’re some kind of criminal - on the run or something - but I don’t care. The second we’re far enough away I’ll break off but I just-” Feyre stopped. The man was laughing - no, chuckling - at her. “What.”

He was half in the shadows, the lamp only reaching so far, but she watched as he opened his mouth to speak and stopped himself. He didn’t look like the kind to be speechless but what did Feyre really know that - about anyone’s human behavior, let alone his. _Stupid_ , she chided herself, _why are you even trying to cut a deal with this guy._

“Look, I just-,” her voice cracked as she spoke, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I don’t trust you but… you’re my only option right now.” 

Any trace of humor drained from the stranger’s face. 

“How long have you been in this tower?” he asked, voice sobering up.

“Nineteen years,” she answered, mouth like cotton as she thought about her mother. All those years, she thought she’d been protected. Now… she had no idea what it was all for.

“And you’re…,” the man started.

“Nineteen,” she finished for him. He slowly made a small move towards her, watching her carefully. Feyre didn’t scare so easily though; she straightened her spine and held her chin just slightly up.

“Who’s keeping you prisoner? Are they here? Is that who that cottage belongs to?” The questions tumbled out fast but he managed to make them seem effortless, smooth even. So much smoother than her earlier barrage had been. 

“I’m not-,” Feyre trailed off, wincing as the sentence finished in her head. _I’m not a prisoner,_ _I just can’t leave._ She had to remind herself of what had unfolded earlier in the day; what had been unfolding for years without her realizing. “No, they’re not. They’re gone for a few days.” The stranger was close to her now, still a few feet away, but now fully visible in the light. She could see him weigh everything in his head as she spoke. “It’s not much of a deal, I know, but _please_. I need to get out of here before they come back. I don’t have any other bartering chips but I’ll… I’ll owe you something. Whenever I have enough to my name to be able to give something in return. A blank slip.”

“What is it? Your name?” he asked. The simple request took her out of the moment. As she spoke, asking him for his help, her adrenaline had built. With every second she grew confident that she couldn’t live a second longer in someone else’s gilded cage. 

“Feyre,” she said, still finding it odd, the way her mouth formed when saying her name. There’d never been much of a reason for her to say it aloud before.

“Rhys,” he returned. “My name’s Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she tried out, not meaning to say it aloud. It caught him by surprise; something in his expression faltered. “Please, just help get me out of here, if you won’t make a deal with me. I have no way of getting out on my own and I- I’m going to die here if I don’t get out before they come back.” _Cause I’ll do it myself before he takes me_ , she thought to herself. The stranger - Rhys - didn’t need to know that though. 

He was quiet for a moment. Now that he was closer, Feyre could see his eyes really were violet. It hadn’t a trick of the light. And when he finally spoke, those strange eyes were clear and looking right at her. 

“I’ll help you,” he said, “until you go your own way.”

Feyre felt her eyes bug.

“You will?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. She shook her head as the words came out. “You will,” she repeated, firmly, as her shoulders relaxed. Both from relief and from the exhaustion that was starting to nip at her. “We should get some sleep then,” she suggested, the words forced as she said them.

Feyre was exhausted but she knew she wouldn’t be getting any sleep with Rhys under the same roof. He’d said it - and so had she - but it was undeniably true in that instant. She didn’t trust him.

“You can sleep on the couch,” she offered, motioning her chin. His eyes followed her motion but eventually made their way back.

“What about you?” he asked.

“My room’s upstairs.”

“And what, you’re gonna sit wide awake up there with a weapon in hand as a stranger sleeps downstairs?” He wasn’t mocking her; he stated it like a fact.

“Half-right,” she said, after a beat. “The closest thing I have to a weapon is that frying pan.”

Rhys’ expression was unreadable as he reached into his pocket. When he took out a knife, her breath caught.

“What are you-” Feyre started, about to reach for said frying pan. Rhys extended the knife out, hilt towards her. “Doing.” The word caught in her throat. 

“Take it for the night,” he explained. “I need to sleep because we have a long day tomorrow. If having that knife helps settle you enough to get some sleep too, so be it. I don’t need dead weight” Feyre wasn’t sure if it would help settle her mind but she took it. The edge gleaming in the night. Her butter knives were a far cry from it. “Besides,” he added, “you need something to cut your hair with.”

Feyre was silent as she looked back up to Rhys, who misinterpreted her blank stare.

“As… interesting as your hair is, you stick out. You need to cut it.”

“I get that,” she agreed with a nod. Her hair was a bother, always getting stuck on things and tangled up. She’d just never been allowed to cut it before. “But, why do you trust me with it?”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” Rhys said, secure in his statement. Feyre expected some kind of back-handed insult to follow -about her ability to wield a weapon or about her inability to hurt someone. It would’ve been fair too, considering she was keeping it at a full arm’s length and as far as Rhys knew, she’d never seen a blunt object in her life. But he didn’t. “I’m your only way out,” he reasoned.

* * *

Feyre did not sleep that night. 

She stayed awake in bed, knife just next to her on her side table. Everything in her body ached but each time her eyes started to shut a nightmare would play out in her head. And they weren’t even about the stranger down the stairs. 

So she laid in bed, over the covers but with her head snugly on the pillow. Her door had no lock but she’d pushed a chair up against it, even though it didn’t do much to calm her nerves.

It took her almost the entirety of the night to process what was happening to her. To comprehend what had happened since the time she last slept. Her future had developed a dozen possible paths in less than twenty-four hours, when before she’d barely had one.

When the light started to seep in through the small cut-outs in the wall, she was surprised to find that she wasn’t tired. It was like her body had been storing energy for years, just for this day. There was no lingering in bed, despite the fact she would never see it again. One last thing she needed to do had weighed on her mind throughout the night. 

Cutting her hair probably should’ve frightened her. She considered this as she brought Rhys’ knife over to the vanity, sat down, and sectioned her hair onto either side of her shoulders. There was so much of it but what had it ever done for her? It helped her mother up the tower but could’ve never helped her. It was a hindrance.

The knife was not as clean as a pair of scissors would’ve been. Feyre had to grasp the bunch of hair and saw the knife through, hearing the carnage as it happened. But she did it. Twice. The mass of hair fell around her onto the floor. The act had barely had any effect on her; she didn’t feel the weight of what she was doing. It was mechanical almost. 

Then she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was still framed the same since she’d cut her just a few inches below her collarbone, but the difference was shocking. She’d had years to study her reflection and this was the first time it had looked remotely different. 

The knife clattered onto her vanity when she brought her hands up, running them through her hair. For the first time in years, her fingers didn’t get caught in tangles. They ran through her strands until they were free. She felt light.

As she packed a small bag of essentials, she kept stealing glances at herself in the mirror. Even if she wanted to, she would never be able to bring Amarantha up into the tower again. That alone was more freeing than the several pounds of hair heaped on the floor. 

“Rhys?” she called out, slowly making her way down the stairs. His knife was in her hand but she didn’t want to surprise him. She saw how fast he could move when he came up to the tower.

He was already awake, staring at a map he’d laid out on the kitchen table. It was a nice day; the sun was bright, filtering in through the wide window and illuminating the room. Seeing him without the haze of night made him seem real. 

Feyre approached him but he never looked up. He was looking at a map of Prythian, only it was different from the one she knew. She set the knife down.

“Hybern?” she read, frowning. Her excitement soured as she made the connection. 

Rhys finally looked up, his eyes widening just a sliver upon seeing her.

“You look… good,” he appraised. He was looking at her dead in the eyes but she mindlessly reached up to grasp the ends of her new haircut. She was too blindsided to thank him.

“Why does that map say Hybern?” she asked, her voice suddenly like glass.

“That’s where we are,” he said. 

“No - we’re in Chéron,” she argued, pointing to the spot on the map where her tower would be. On her bookshelf, she had a history book of Prynthian. It was one of the older ones, there since she was little and with leather starting to crack, and she knew it well. She hadn’t touched it in years, opting for the fantastical stories of escapism over a world she’d never get to explore, but she’d memorized the map.

What was in front of Rhys was something else. Before, her tower had been right in the center of Chéron, the southernmost territory on the continent. Now, it was right against the border of Earrach, which had doubled in size. 

Feyre caught Rhys looking at her warily out of the corner of her eye.

“It hasn’t been Chéron for years - almost twenty,” he explained. “I doubt you’ve ever actually lived in Chéron.”

“And Hybern, what is that? What does it mean?” she asked clumsily, the man with the same name clouding her thoughts. He had no qualms about killing her.

“It’s where we are,” Rhys said, “Hybern’s court. The bastard named it after himself when he stole it.” Feyre’s vision blurred. Nothing quite made sense anymore but she knew that her prison just got larger. “Feyre?”

Hearing her name aloud was enough to get her attention. She liked the way he said it, stretching out the syllables. 

“I didn’t realize I’d been studying an old map,” she dismissed, knowing she couldn’t confide in him. The lie was smooth enough but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Where are we heading?” she asked, changing the topic and praying it was at least a few territories away.

Rhys traced his finger up the map, landing at the very top in the Nos territory. It was the largest of the courts - that hadn’t changed. It was the absolute furthest she could get too. _Thank the cauldron_ , she thought.

“How have you been traveling? You’re far from home.” Feyre hadn’t thought to ask before. Logistics were the last thing on her mind the night before. “I didn’t mean to slow you down if you use your, um…” she trailed off.

“My wings?” he finished, raising a brow. She nodded. “It’s not safe for me to use them here. In Hybern, I’ve been traveling on foot. A little further north, past Earrach at least, we can use horses.”

Feyre nodded, not wanting to remind him of the obvious; her furthest trek was from the window to the bedroom and she’d never seen a horse. She’d do whatever it took though - be as adaptable as possible. The longer he dealt with her, the further away she could get. Maybe she could break away in the Jour court if she got far enough. She’d once read that Rhys’ home, Nos, was dark and dreary. 

“What are you doing all the way down here?” she asked, reexamining his features. There was so little written about the Nos court.; she quietly wondered if every one else looked like him. If so, maybe she wasn’t as pretty as she’d once thought. 

“That’s none of your business,” he said, voice low. In a sweep of his hand, he’d gathered the map and the knife from the table. She noticed a half-eaten piece of her bread left on the table. He’d already eaten; he was ready to go. 

“Once I grab breakfast we should leave,” Feyre said, shrugging her shoulder with the knapsack. “I want to be as far away from here as possible when anyone returns.”

Rhys looked like he wanted to say something - ask something - but Feyre was done prolonging things. And, she didn’t want him to pry. They could both play at his game. They didn’t need to get to know each other - they just needed to get going. 

“Actually, I’ll just take it to go,” she decided with a nod. “I’m not hungry anyway.” He watched as she swept up random pieces of food from the kitchen. She took as much as would fit in her bag for later. It wasn’t much. “Let’s go,” she announced, spinning back around. 

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” Rhys asked, eyes wandering around the tower. 

“Cauldron, no,” she bit out, more uneasily than she’d like. Her eyes were set right on the window, fighting to look away from the canvases that she’d poured her heart into and the walls that were the only life she’d only known.

Rhys nodded. He didn’t look like he believed her but he moved towards the window anyway. In a flash of darkness, his wings were out. Another day, Feyre would ask him about how that worked. He had one hand outstretched, another readjusting his satchel.

Feyre swallowed hard, walking towards Rhys until she was just inches away.

“You know you have to hold onto me so I can carry you down?” Rhys teased. Feyre felt a flush on her cheeks, embarrassed at her own hesitation. She was so unused to physical contact that when she rested her hands on his shoulders, she flinched. “We’ll be down in a second,” he promised, the edge in his voice softening. There was so much for her to focus on at once; the feeling of his arms wrapping around her, the rush of air when they lifted off the ground, and the pounding of her heart at the sensation of falling.

Only, as quickly as it started, it was over. Just like that, Feyre was free from her tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Separate note but does anyone reading this use tiktok? I'm way too obsessed with it but I like the ya book community on there.


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